


Briefing; On the Zoo Plane

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Politics, American Politics, Civil War AU, Fear and Loathing with Bucky Barnes, M/M, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it bothered Bucky, because Steve was All-American alright, but not in the way they all meant.</p><p>The Steve he'd know had been a queer sickly kid raised on welfare. A belligerent, self-righteous little punk with no respect for authority. He was a know-it-all who hid his iron won't-take-no-for-an-answer attitude behind good manners and a quiet demeanor. The prickly loner who always wanted to be independent but had a soul-deep hunger for community. That Steve Rogers had been All-American.</p><p>This one Bucky wasn't sure about yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't complicate the simple.

_20 years ago_

New York State Assembly  
Live Coverage – Assembly Session

 

 **Representative Hoffman:** Our colleague from the 51st might be used to a certain quality of – he and his constituents might be _comfortable_ with those kinds of crime rates, but the rest of us like to think New York has left those times behind.

[Murmuring from around the chamber.]

 **Representative Hoffman:** If we're going to preserve and grow the economy of this state, that starts with acknowledging and rewarding who _drives_ that growth – not coddling those who just sit back and live off it.

[Rep. Hoffman sits down.]

 **Representative Kincaid:** Gentleman from the 51st, two minutes on adoption of the amendment.

[Rep. Barnes stands up.]

 **Representative Barnes:** Thank you, Mr. Speaker.

[A long pause.]

 **Representative Barnes:** I... just want all of us to keep in mind the precedent we're setting here if we put restrictions like this in place. We all know who it's going to hurt. We all do, you can't pretend otherwise. It'll be students who're already at a disadvantage. And I know – I _know_ you think they're not your constituents, but that's... let me tell you, that's some short-term thinking, my friends –

[Muffled comment from Rep. Hoffman.]

 **Representative Kincaid** : Ladies and _gentlemen_ , may I remind you of Assembly etiquette –

 **Representative Barnes:** No, no. You know what? I invite the gentleman from the 73rd to suck my _cock_ –

[Chamber erupts in shouting.]

 

* * * *

_20 years ago, 2 minutes later_

New York State Capitol  
AD 51 Staff Offices

 

The interns and staffers are all frozen at their desks, some with a phone against their ear or fingers poised over a keyboard. One by one they start casting wide-eyed glances over their shoulders to the office in the back, where a highly agitated young man clad in an ill-fitting suit is shouting into a phone.

“I want you to get him the hell out of there, Harvey, I don't care if you have to knock him out to do it!”

The small television in the corner is tuned to the live telecast of the session. Even as the man behind the desk paces and talks rapidly into the phone, he sees Hoffman throw a punch at Barnes. Within seconds an ellipse of dark suits converge on the foci of the brawling politicians, blocking them from view of the camera.

The man behind the desk stops pacing and lets the hand holding the phone drop dumbly down to his side.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Steve Rogers, Chief of Staff for the 51st Assembly District and life-long friend of Representative James Buchanan Barnes. He falls backwards into his desk chair like his strings have been cut and stares helplessly at the farce on the television screen.

 

* * * *

_20 years ago, 5 hours later_

~~51 st Assembly District  
~~Red Hook, Brooklyn

 

Representative James Buchanan Barnes gets out of the taxi on the corner of Bush and Columbia; Bucky enters Mickey's Tavern.

Mickey's isn't exactly what you'd call an adored neighborhood establishment – in fact, it's kind of seen by some as a despicable harbinger of gentrification. The first wave of “artists” have already started to filter into the surrounding streets, collecting scrap metal for trash sculptures and spouting bad poetry in the local coffee shops. Bucky finds them hilarious, but Steve, being a native _don't-call-me-an-artist-Buck-I-just-like-drawing-okay_ , feels nothing but disgust.

So Mickey's with its craft beers and frou-frou bar appetizers represents everything new and awful heading their way but, you know, it's also one of the few places around that has free Wi-Fi. It had basically been their office-away-from-the-office during the campaign, and it's become just habit to meet there when anything goes down.

He spots Steve right away, his long rail-thin frame hunched over on his customary stool at the dark end of the bar. His sketchbook is no where to be seen, which is a bad sign. Steve's brooding.

Bucky's just off a long drive down from Albany and has a shiner that's frozen half his face in pain. Combined with the lingering comedown from the fight, he _really_ needs a hit right now. He thinks about going into the bathroom to take the edge off, but Steve's already spotted him. He doesn't move to wave him over or even nod, just raises his head and locks eyes on him. Stares him down until Bucky has no choice but to move forward into the room.

He slides onto the stool beside him and tries on a grin. Gestures to his own face and says, “Couldn't find a steak, but I think it's kind of a lost cause at this point.”

Steve doesn't say anything, and Bucky feels his grin turn ugly.

“You know, I don't think the fallout from this is going to be too bad,” he says and fiddles restlessly with the coaster in front of him. “I mean, it's not like most of our constituents wouldn't've have done the same thing if they were in my place. And half the Democratic caucus already thought I was a radical poison pill, so.”

He taps his fingers on the pre-scuffed hardwood counter.

Steve still doesn't say anything; Bucky stares at him staring into his glass.

“Jesus, Steve, it's not like you haven't gotten into your own share of dumb fights,” he says eventually, patience unraveling all at once.

Steve _does_ react to that. Head coming up, he says with some of that cold enunciation he picked up in college, “Getting into bar fights in college is not even remotely comparable. You're a goddamn _Assemblyman_.”

Bucky throws his hands up. “Steve, _he_ hit _me!_ ”

Steve nods, and oh, he looks furious. “Yeah, after you told him in front of the whole chamber and soon-to-be every nightly news audience in the state to suck your dick.”

“Oh Jesus,” Bucky says. He should've taken that hit, there is no way he can be expected to deal with this shit sober. Instead, he signals the bartender for a beer. They sit in silence as the beer is poured and placed in front of him.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Buck?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky resists the urge to wince and instead twitches his shoulders like shaking off a fly. He _hates_ that tone of voice, the quiet disappointment that actually masks a deep well of anger because Steve can be a passive aggressive punk.

He doesn't respond at first, doesn't have the words to begin to explain how fucked up he is and has been since the Zola hearing nine months previous. There's no way he's telling Steve the truth, and it's not so much a choice as a physical _impossibility._ He'd sooner put a gun in his mouth than have Steve know about the shit he's gotten himself into. Can't stand the thought of how he'd look at him.

Of course, that's exactly the reason he's being blackmailed.

“I feel like you're falling,” Steve says, and it's worse than disappointed, now he sounds _upset_. “And there's nothing I can do to stop it.” He leans forward, catching Bucky's unwilling eyes, and says, horribly entreating, “ _Please_. Just tell me. Whatever it is, I can fix it. That's why I'm here.”

Bucky stares into those eyes, shadowed by a heavy brow and imagines them widening in shock. Those lips curling in revulsion and thin shoulders stiffening and turning away.

“Steve, hand to God,” he says, voice trying for light and wavering only slightly on its way. “Nothing's going on. I lost my temper this afternoon, that's all. He hit a nerve.”

Steve's eyes dim and he leans back. After a moment he lifts his drink and downs it in one go, never minding it's a double, and sets the glass down with a finality that's both dramatic and understated at once.

“I can't do this anymore,” he says, almost like an afterthought. His fingers rub absently over the angled sides of his glass.

Bucky feels sick. “...What, you thinking of giving up the drink?”

Steve doesn't move or say anything for a long moment, and Bucky starts to shift nervously. His fingers itch for relief. Then:

“I quit.”

Steve slides off his stool and shrugs his jacket on in a jerky motion. Bucky sits frozen and staring.

He absently thinks of how tall Steve is, how his height is usually overlooked on account of his skinny shoulders and the way he always looks like someone has wrung him out like a wet towel.

Bucky can't look up at his face, so he keeps his gaze down and finds himself looking at Steve's bony wrists where they stick out from his short coat sleeves. The sight makes something in his chest hurt, tight and surely fatal.

He's unprepared for when the hand attached to one of those wrists reaches up and grips his shoulder. They've always been tactile with each other, quick to sling an arm over a shoulder or to pull and shove, but Steve's hand suddenly feels like a stranger's, like he has somehow fundamentally changed or maybe Bucky himself is different.

“Bucky... good luck. I really," Steve exhales, and the noise is harsh on his ears, " _god –_ I really hope you'll be okay.”

And then he's gone.

* * * *

_The Present_

 

The late winter is clinging on hard, sleet coming down heavy and wet, and the mood on the street is a mixture of pedestrian resignation and homicidal automation. Bleak faces under umbrellas and a soundtrack of skidding-in-slush car horns.

Bucky's fed up with it all. He's forgotten his umbrella and spent the entire walk from the subway station tugging his sleeve fruitlessly down over his prosthetic hand. He can only hope the wet doesn't seep through the coat fabric; the last thing he wants to do on this shitty morning is spend the first half hour in the office patting dry each individual metal plate.

When he gets into the office, he barely has time to ditch his sodden jacket and check his arm before he's called in to talk to Daniel and the National Affairs editor Lisa.

"Good morning, James. How do you feel about going to New Hampshire?" Lisa greets him.

He pauses for a second before slumping down into a chair and kicking his boots up onto the corner of her desk. He studies her for a long moment before sighing.

“You’re not putting me on Stark are you? 'Cause I might as well have a relapse right now, that man brings out the devil in his press pool. They always end up higher than a bunch of Deadheads at Woodstock.”

Daniel pops his gum over by the window and cocks his head thoughtfully. “That what happen to Carl Liggit last fall? Thought those were just rumors.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Nope. And don't forget there were two ODs back in ‘04, Susie Fremkin and uh... you know, that cameraman from NBC.”

Lisa automatically makes a nonverbal noise that is almost impressive for the way it combines pitch-perfect regret and complete indifference to the conversation. Then she puts her hands flat on her desk and stands up so she can look down at him.

“James, we're not putting you on Stark – and besides, it's early yet. We're not putting you on any one candidate.”

Bucky just gives her a flat, skeptical look in response.

Tony Stark had the Republican nomination pretty much locked down and everyone knew it. He was already directing his war chest to churning out ads and lit attacking the Democratic front-runners. As far as confidence in politics goes, that's a pretty solid sign. Basch was mounting an effort, but he was so far behind in the polls it wasn’t even funny – literally; even the late night talk shows couldn’t be bothered to joke about it.

“We want you to cover the Democratic race,” Lisa says.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Wait, I offered to do that three weeks ago, but you didn't have an answer for me. What's changed?”

Lisa and Daniel exchange looks.

Bucky likes to think of himself as someone reasonably quick on the uptake. He slides his feet of the desk with a heavy thud and sits up to point at Lisa – with his left hand, because after all this time he's learned to wield its startling appearance where he can.

“What aren't you telling me?”

Daniel asks, almost gleeful, “You haven’t seen the news?”

Bucky shrugs, “No news before coffee, you know that. Wanting to punch the world in the face isn't good for my work productivity.”

Lisa sighs and turns her computer monitor around to face Bucky.

Bucky looks at it for barely a second, glances up at the two watching him closely, and then back at the screen. He chews his lip, thinking this really shouldn't be as much of a shock as it is.

“You insensitive, opportunistic _hacks_ ,” he says eventually. It's really the only thing he can bring himself to say.

Lisa shrugs, unrepentant, “That's journalism.”

“No,” Bucky replies ruefully, eyes still drifting over the bold, curated photo of the man on the screen. “That's politics.”

 

* * * *

**Steve Rogers Launches White House Bid**

_By Gregory Enright_  
Washington Post Staff Writer  
Sunday, January 20, 20**

 

> Sen. Steve Rogers announced to a cheering crowd in his Brooklyn neighborhood Sunday that he will seek the 20** Democratic nomination for president.
> 
> “The whole world's changing. And we're going to be the ones changing it,” Rogers told the crowd.
> 
> Rogers, 45, is the youngest candidate in the Democrats' 20** primary field dominated by frontrunner Thor Odinson and filled with more well-known public figures. In an address from the neighborhood where he began his political career more than 15 years ago, the first-term U.S. senator sought to distinguish himself from rivals by portraying his lack of ties to the Washington political establishment as an asset.
> 
> His announcement was deliberately timed to come shortly before President Pierce's State of the Union address, campaign advisers said, so he can draw a contrast with the administration's values and record.
> 
> In hypothetical general election matchups against the GOP frontrunner and heir-apparent Tony Stark, Mr. Rogers trails in the polls, falling lower than other prominent Democratic candidates Odinson and Hill. While the candidates spar for voter approval heading into the primary season, one thing is certain: they should keep in their sights the tough battle in the fall against the juggernaut from the right.

 

 


	2. Is America ready for an unmarried president?

Before he can go to New Hampshire, Bucky ends up flying down to Miami and spending the entire afternoon giving a pep talk and impromptu intervention to Jas Sitwell, the unlucky bastard the magazine assigned to the Stark campaign.

By the time he gets back to the airport he's missed his flight to New Hampshire and doesn't end up getting into Manchester until damn near two in the morning. It's too late to pick up his rental, so he takes a room at a hotel next to the airport.

The inescapable airport light that has found its way into his room around the edges of the curtains and casts a static glow over the queen bed and forgettable landscape wall art.

It's the first of many hotel rooms on the campaign. Exhausted already, he drops his duffle bag by the door, stumbles through pulling off his coat, shirt, and trousers, and finally collapses on the bed.

–

He wakes up three hours later as the first series of flights of the new day depart next door.

It's still before dawn, and he has a long day ahead of him. But instead of falling back to sleep, Bucky lies staring up at the hotel ceiling, allowing the steady roar of the planes overhead to consume his senses.

A restless buzzing has taken hold under his skin, and it might just be the lack of sleep or the lingering image of Jas's shaky expression from the day before. Or it might be anticipation, nerves so prepped to see Steve they are making him sick with it.

He hasn't seen him in five years, hasn't talked to him in twelve. The last time they were in a room alone together had ended with Bucky falling off the wagon and getting himself blown up in the Caucuses and Steve getting married.

Now who cares about causality when you can put a sentence like that together, Bucky thinks into the darkness.

In a hotel room one can lay oneself bare. The sheets under your skin will be whisked away first thing the next morning, the furniture and surfaces cleaned of every hint of your presence. No assemblages of your life are present to remind you later of how you poured your emotions out.

Another plane gears up to take off. As the roar comes down over the room again, Bucky wraps his non-metal hand around himself, closes his eyes, and thinks about his old friend like the pathetic sadsack he is.

  
  


* * * *

  
  


The next morning, equipped with a rental car and sunglasses to block the blinding sunlight reflected off the snow-covered ground, Bucky heads into downtown Manchester to search out the actual hotel he'll be staying at for the duration of the New Hampshire primary.

He switches on the local news radio to see if any one is talking about the campaign and gets an earful of shit.

–

“ _Dave from Laconia, what do you think?”_

“ _Hi Pat, thanks for taking my call. I just wanted to say – don't kid yourself that Steve Rogers is a win for gay America. This man was married to a woman for eight years – and has kept her on as his_ campaign manager _, like that's going to fool anyone – ”_

“ _I'm sorry, Dave but we don't air comments like that, so unless you have another point to make – oh, Mary looks likes she has something to say. Mary from GLAAD-New Hampshire.”_

“ _Yes, Pat. This is exactly the kind of biphobic talk that has stopped so many in this country from accepting themselves. To say Steve Rogers isn't queer because he once was married to a woman is preposterous. I say it's a good sign that he's hired her on as his campaign manager, it shows maturity and respect for a highly accomplished woman– ”_

“ _But what do you think of those who say even if he wins, it doesn't really mean anything. That it's easier to accept a bisexual man when he's unmarried or with a woman?”_

“ _I'd say those people obviously have no clue what kind of bias bisexuals deal with day-in and day-out, to think the stereotype of the uncommitted bisexual could somehow work in his favor.”_

“ _I say never mind being bisexual, the real question is – is America ready for a divorced, unmarried president?”_

_< laughter> “Yeah, let's not forget our Puritan roots. I mean, I'm going to vote for him and take a selfie doing it, but let's be honest here – Steve Rogers doesn't have a chance in hell of becoming President of the United States.” _

–

Steve is a relatively late addition to the race, and the primary season is already in full-swing. The Radisson is at full capacity, packed with campaign staff and journos jockeying for a scoop. Bucky wouldn't have a hope of getting a room if the magazine didn't have a standing reservation for this time of the year. 

The hotel knows exactly who its target clientele is; instead of brochures of the sights and restaurants tips, the lobby is decked out with campaign itineraries and maps, reservable quiet rooms for phone calls and interviews, and a media-only section equipped with a T3 broadband connection and all the equipment one might need in an emergency to write and send a story. 

(And then there's the lobby bar, which has at least a few straggling reporters drinking at any given hour of the day and night, doggedly watching one of the 10 screens tuned a cable news channel like the junkies they are.)

It's in there that Bucky, fresh from dropping off his luggage and taking a shower, finds Natasha Romanoff perched on a stool. She has her phone and a large mug of coffee sitting in front of her.

Natasha's a political operative, which is a job one will never find listed in a drop-down menu or advertised on an employment site. In fact, it's less a job and more an identity with an unclear line of command and murky legal boundaries. When an operative is good at their job, the vast majority of the public won't know their name. 

Natasha Romanoff is very good at her job.

“James,” she says, turning on her stool and crossing one leg over the other. “It's been a while.” 

They'd first met at a global water summit in Moscow seven years ago, and their encounters since had usually been... acrobatically athletic in nature. 

“Natasha.” He leaned up against the counter. “It's a little early for the DNC to have called you in, isn't it?” He tried to think about why she would be here; it was a bit like bringing a gun before a fight's even been declared. “You pulling for Odinson? He worried?” 

She just smiles at his unsubtle attempt. “Actually, today I'm hear to talk to you.” 

He cocks his head at that. “I haven't filed a single word yet, and my room is under my editor's name. So how did you know I was here?” He knew she wasn't above looking illegally into the security rosters, but he wanted to know just how far she went. It might give him a hint as to her game. 

“James, don't be naive. If you hadn't shown up to cover the campaign, I still would have tracked you down soon.” She looks at him with flat eyes that convey nothing but a bland pleasantness but still managed to prickle like a threat. 

He chews her words over for a moment, not saying anything. But they've always had an uncanny understanding of each other and eventually it becomes a foregone conclusion. He looks down at his metal arm where it sits on the counter. “You're working for Steve's campaign. Not the DNC.” 

She simply nods.

“And, what, you want to secure my silence? The man's already told people he's queer, I can't imagine what other damage he could do.”

“What I want, James,” she says. “Is your cooperation.” 

He barks out a laugh, heedless of the bloodhound twitch it causes in the other journalists in the room. After a moment he says, “In case you've forgotten, I'm the _media_ , Nat. The enemy.” 

She waves a hand dismissively, “Oh, Steve doesn't think you'll be a problem – in fact, he's told me under no uncertain terms to leave you alone.” 

“Has he.” Bucky nearly bites his tongue in half, and Nat watches him carefully, probably assessing every minute shift in his expression for an exploitable weakness. Bucky doesn't know how feels about it, that Steve trusts him, or perhaps thinks him harmless. He wants to ask if Steve also already knows he's here, but holds the question back. He has some pride – not much, but some. 

“Of course, I wouldn't be good at my job if I followed candidates' noble convictions,” Nat says. “Your type is campaign kryptonite.” 

“My type?” Bucky feels his shoulders tighten up involuntarily. The metal at the joint flexes.

She doesn't mince her words. “Ex-lover with a history of instability and drug abuse.” 

For a moment, Bucky can't speak, he's so angry. The words are slow and heavy and he has to use everything he's got to shove them out past his teeth. “We were never lovers.” 

Nat nods and smiles. “That was almost perfect – just keep practicing in front of a mirror, and we'll be okay.” She sets her mug down and picks up her purse, clearly ready to leave.

“Id you think you know things, what makes you believe I won't just lay it all out in an article? It would be one hell of a story.”

“You won't do that, and we both know exactly why.” She pats him on the shoulder as she leaves. “See you at the rally this afternoon.” 

His left hand leaves a gouge in the top of the bar. 

  
  


* * * *

  
  


The rally is being held at the New Hampshire Institute of Art, which Bucky finds just a little too fucking perfect, but he can't deny that the students there are second to none in enthusiasm. He takes in the auditorium from the wall at the far left just below the stage. Camera operators and writers alike are setting themselves up in various cramped positions in the orchestra pit, but he prefers to stand a little closer to the crowd, even if it means his right ear going deaf from the screams of the young co-ed beside him. 

It rubs him wrong somehow, seeing Steve's name on a sea of waving placards. It's not jealousy, quite, but a nagging feeling of falsity _._ He looks out over all the campaign pageantry and red-white-and-blue and none of it feels like _Steve_. 

There had been rumors of him running long before he made the official announcement, and of course Bucky has punishingly read every article on the matter. The consensus online and certainly in this auditorium was that Steve Rogers was the All-American candidate. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with a yes-ma'am charm to woo the elderly and an oratory wit to excite the young. 

And it bothered Bucky, because Steve was All-American alright, but not in the way they all meant.

The Steve he'd know had been a queer sickly kid raised on welfare. A belligerent, self-righteous little punk with no respect for authority. He was a know-it-all who hid his iron won't-take-no-for-an-answer attitude behind good manners and a quiet demeanor. The prickly loner who always wanted to be independent but had a soul-deep hunger for community. _That_ Steve Rogers had been All-American.

This one Bucky wasn't sure about yet. 

Just as he's wondering how much of that thought he can or should use in his first article, the speakers overhead start to blast _Man With A Plan._ In the pit, the cameras all go live. The crowd of students cheer louder, and finally Senator Rogers walks out under the stage lights, arm stretched up in a greeting and a confident perfect smile on his face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see... the asterisks in dates are not typos, I intentionally used them because I don't want to place the story in a time period more specific than 'vague contemporary/near future'. 
> 
> I have no idea if the New York state legislature follows the etiquette of referring to one another only by 'gentleman from [district number]'. It's what they do in my state, and I find it so endearing that I couldn't bring myself to dig too hard into NY's practices in that area. 
> 
> “Don't complicate the simple” is a line said by James Carville in the documentary The War Room. And Steve's quote in the news article is from an actual pep talk Captain America gave Cyclops [this one time.](http://www.comicvine.com/captain-america/4005-1442/forums/speeches-by-steve-rogers-565915/)
> 
> Feedback is dearly appreciated and sometimes met with overenthusiastic hugs. If tumblr's more your thing, you can find me [here](http://www.sackett-and-katz.tumblr.com).


End file.
